Walk through Bedford Police Blotter.

Ahem, ladies and gentlemen, it's another day, another dollar, and yet another old folk brawl. Let's journey down to our 'Survivor Senior Edition' setting: Rockside Road Memory Care Facility the Thunderdome for those who can't remember where they left their false teeth.

At approximately 7:23 p.m. an hour generally devoted to vigorous rounds of bingo and early bird dinners Granny-Ann decided it was time to throw down some justice. Picture it now; a spitfire octogenarian with mean right hook and a scowl that could scare a pit bull. She evidently decided to give one of her fellow memory-challenged mates an unwelcomed love tap. No foul language, no purse swinging, only a neatly packaged punch.

Why the unexpected fisticuffs, you might ask? We're still wondering so is Granny-Ann, probably. After all, it's a 'memory care' facility. But like all great mysteries, we may never know.

The memory-care staff, ineffective referees as they are, jumped into action to mediate the hair curler hullabaloo. They chatted with the crinkle-faced contenders and mutually agreed to let bygones be bygones, or more accurately, forgotten entirely.

No boys in blue were needed, no charges pressed. Guess the resident who took the hit decided that Granny-Ann’s jab wasn't worth a trip to the courthouse. Or maybe they just forgot they’d been clocked.

Until next time, folks. Remember: secure your dentures and beware of surprisingly feisty elders. You just might get socked by someone who can't remember what they had for breakfast.

Oh, welcome to the Great Broadway Bonbon Battle of May 3rd, 2026, dear readers, brought to you by (insert drumroll) "Dumb Crimes Weekly" giving you the finest in totally true idiocy.

So apparently, Bedford thought it was a grand idea to let the kids at the "Big Girl's Candy Shop" operate past midnight. fricking genius, right? And why wouldn't ya? Who doesn't want a sugar high at the witching hour?

Anyway, at just a bit past one in the morning, as the moon hanged up there questioning life choices like the rest of us, the police got a call. The disturbance? Some lady, three sheets to the wind, was raising hell at a business on Broadway Avenue. How you ask? Well, she was throwing a one-woman tantrum featuring a candy-throwing extravaganza.

That's right, folks: "Mama Wonka", in all her drunken glory, was pelting the hardworking staff with gummy bears and nougat-filled pieces of paradise. "Take that," she presumably slurred, "and that!” She was knocking shit off shelves left and right, like a toddler gate-crashing a tea party.

The staff, probably more scared of the wrath of Starburst missiles than any real harm, tried to kick her out. But, oh no, this boozy candy-corn queen wasn't having any of it. So they rang the boys in blue and cried chocolate.

Cops finally found her outside her vehicle - presumably looking for her glasses, spearheads or maybe the last shred of her dignity. They gave the gal a good talking to and sent her on her merry way hopefully to somewhere with less throwable objects and more rehab.

So, there you have it, folks: yet another night well-spent for the Bedford PD, keeping our city safe from candy-wielding, drunk and disorderly spectacle queens. The city never sleeps, and apparently, neither do the antics.

Get a load of this shitshow, my adoring followers. You remember that ridiculous game that your rebellious teenage self used to play while trying to avoid doing homework? You know, the one where you made extravagant plans on how to steal your family car and make a grand escape from your "oh-so-terrible" suburban living? Apparently, a few lovely numbskulls in Bedford decided to morph that into reality. And oh, they just had to pick the illustrious Kia dealership, truly the epitome of high luxury.

For the love of God, if you're going to steal a car, at least choose a damn Rolls Royce. However, these geniuses leaned towards a couple of 2025 Kia Sportages. Yeah, 'cause nothing screams badass criminal quite like a Kia Sportage one in a ghastly white and the other in a shade they're trying to pass off as jungle green.

Here's the icing on this half-baked crap cake: The general manager, the Einstein of car dealerships, waited five grand old days before he realized his precious Kias were gone. Five days, folks. You'd think he’d notice since he's the bloody general manager. But no, he was so tied up in circle jerks of corporate meetings that he didn't give a hoot about these beasts of Korean engineering being mysteriously AWOL from his highly secure, open-air lot.

This beacon of the car world was also seen scratching his head in confusion, completely unsure whether his two darling Sportages were adorning another dealership, or had been unceremoniously snatched away by some pathetically ambitious crooks.

And the precious cherry on this stupidity sundae? Kia Corporation won't start tracking these vehicular beasts until they are definitively reported as stolen. I can almost see the corporate suits in their pristine glass towers, shrugging and mumbling, "Not our problem yet, Billy boy."

In the spirit of complete professionalism, they've helpfully entered the warhorses into the LEADS system. If only tossing breadcrumbs to Hansel and Gretel was this damn efficient.

Be sure to buckle up for this magnificent car caper, kiddos. It's going to be a bumpy ride.

Well, well, well, let's rewind to January 27, 2025, in the midst of the daily humdrum on Broadway Avenue. A Circle K gas station, of course, hindsight being 20/20, seems an ideal location for criminal masterminds to conduct their misdeeds. And can we just take a moment to appreciate the choice of wheels here? A silver Chevy Malibu nothing screams inconspicuous like a middle-of-the-road sedan.

At bang on 12:09 PM, our protagonist with questionable life choices decides to play a round of "what stolen dealer plate?" while fueling up. The plate, cheerfully registered out of Bedford, was no doubt preening from the attention it was getting as the cops arrived on scene. I'd put money on the police thinking they've stumbled onto the crime of the century.

Unfortunately for them, the riveting plot unravels faster than a cat on catnip shredding your grandmother's finest silk. The crafty culprit, it turns out, was as innocent as a three-legged puppy. The dealership at North Coast apparently decided to give our guy a little souvenir post-service. Either that, or someone there was dozing on their job big time.

The stolen dealer plate was confiscated like a bag of candy from a toddler. Don't worry, they returned it. Cue collective sigh, or bored yawn? Either way, a round of applause for the cops, folks, they managed to tell the guy he should probably register his vehicle properly. I can rest easy knowing our streets are safer - from the threat of service negligence, if nothing else.

This unforgettable saga brought to you by the unparalleled 20/20 vision in hindsight who said knee-slapping hilarity isn’t part of the daily police grind?

Broadway Avenue: You never seem to disappoint. Keep the idiocy alive.

Well, butter my biscuits and call it a day, we've got another classic case of "he said, she shoved" on our hands! This circus unfolded right on our favorite mischief lane, Rockside Road, at the oh-so-ungodly hour of 1:01 p.m. during which any straight-thinking fella would be munching on lunch rather than handling wayward whips, don't you think?

Here's how it went down: our gallant repo man let's call him Bob, short for Bob-the-boulder-who-cried-wolf reported to the local fuzz that he'd been given quite a push while trying to make a certain 4-wheeled beast return from its loaner vacation. Earth shattering, ain't it?

Now, if this were a Hollywood movie, upon seeing our sturdy knight Bob being subjected to such dastardly rude gestures, the officers would storm in and make the villain pay dramatically. But, alas, this plot twist would make even M. Night Shyamalan roll his eyes.

The boys in blue, being quite familiar with the pantomime Bob inadvertently seems to play the main clown in, took a gander at the situation and made a shocking discovery. Brace yourselves, dear readers. They found drum-roll please no assault had occurred. Nada. Zero. Zilch. Imagine the disappointment; it's like opening a beer can and finding it empty.

So what could they do? They are cops, not therapists and Bob obviously needed the latter more than the former. They pacified our misplaced hero gently with some legal jargon the meeting of "civil" and "nature" were tossed about rather liberally. Let's pray Bob sticks to repossession and not play-acting next time, yeah?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to recover from this assault... to my intelligence.

Alright, folks. Strap in, 'cause this one is right off the deep end of sanity. In the story where "wherefore art thou brain-cells", comes to you from, where else...Columbus Road.

At the respectable hour of 11.24 a.m. the boys in blue were alerted of a breaking and entering situation. But hold the phone, before you think it's another episode of "My Trailer, My Safe Space", think again. Our perp on the lam ain’t no usual crim. Oh no. What's more dangerous than a masked mischief-maker on a crime spree? A juvenile? Bollocks. Worse. A juvenile in a library!

You heard it. A rogue rugrat hellbent on a madcap mission of literature looting. I'm nearly in tears typing this. Our titillating tale comes straight from the hallowed halls of the Columbus Road Library, where their fearsome foe left nothing but utter chaos in his untimely wake.

The nerve of some people. Imagine, breaking into a place that literally gives stuff for free. What's next? Running off without paying for his free lunch? The fiend.

So buckle up, because the Columbus Road Library Bandit is on the loose, and he's armed with a deadly paper cut and Thesaurus!

Stay tuned for the spellbinding sequel, as the cops get down to the finer points of their investigation, which probably includes pattin' down Dr. Seuss for clues. And as always, remember, in the chaotic world of Columbus Road, there's no plot too absurd, no tale too tall.

Story brought to you by: "Whose Line is it? Apparently, the Cops' Now!"

Oh, what an electrifying start to the day over on W. Interstate, folks! You'd think the clock striking 9:52 a.m. would set the scene for a lukewarm latte or perhaps a lawsuit over a burnt McMuffin. But no, today we've got a thieving saga to brighten the morning faster than your office's flickering fluorescent light mess.

Here's the gist: a battery bails on its abode. The perp? Drum roll, please! A bitter, presumably underpaid ex-employee who apparently decided to channel their inner Nicholas Cage and go full 'Gone in 60 Seconds' on an automotive heartbeat worth a staggering $229. You heard me folks, professional courtesy seems to have walked off a freaking cliff!

Feels like an exciting episode of "Worst Ways to Ruin Your Life for Less than $300," doesn't it? I mean, who needs a pristine criminal record or steady employment when you can have a slightly used Duracell? Am I right?

So what's the usual procedure here? Strap on a coon skin cap, shut down the interstate, call in The Mounties to hunt down the renegade battery pilferer? Nope! The boys in blue didn’t have to lift a finger. Not an iota of policing acumen was sullied in the making of this arrest. Why? Because what Mr. Energizer Bunny didn't realize was that our towing company couldn't afford to pay him a livable wage, but it sure as hell could afford top-notch surveillance systems.

Clean up on W. Interstate, folks. We have an idiot on aisle 5.

Morning, sunshine. Hope you're sitting down and sipping your morning Joe, cause’ this one will wake you up faster than a Red Bull enema. Welcome to Broadway Avenue at a bright and early 9:18 a.m., prime time for a classy kerfuffle between two dames. And what were these sisterly sirens scrapping about? None other than the long-disgraced art of parenting, my friends.

A concerned John Doe decides he's had enough of the bitch fest. Fearing for the child's welfare amidst the waltz of words, he calls up our boys in blue. Because, ya know, they've got nothing better to do than break up a verbal volleyball match.

Our heroes promptly arrive and find - drum roll, please - a mother desperately trying to prevent her beloved offspring from waltzing right into oncoming traffic. We've got no drugs, no weapons, no crazy ex-lovers hiding in the trunk; just a caring mom and a kid who apparently thinks they're starring in a live-action Frogger game.

The verdict: no harm, no foul, apart from a cackling hen-peck over the barista screwing up an order, from what I gather. Just another day on Broadway Ave. A standing ovation for our finest whose only combat was against aggravated communication.

Stay tuned for more of your cherished Chaos on Broadway.

Get a load of this folks. You thought your job was bad? Try being a landlord on Columbus Road on a fine, balmy afternoon at exactly 5:17pm. Oh, and did I mention it's also April 19, 2026? Sorry for leaving out such critical information.

In this particularly ridiculous episode of "Tenants Gone Wild," Sir Landlord Extraordinaire decided enough was enough. Strutting over to this rental property, he was there to collect unpaid rent, spitting fire and ready to lay down the law, or so he thought. But alas, Sir Landlord was grossly unprepared for what was about to happen.

Break out your violins, folks, because as the sun began its descent, our brave landlord got smacked. That's right folks, an argument brewed, tempers flared, voices were raised, and bada bing, bada boom, our hero was struck. Now, before you start panicking, no, he was not struck down a la Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight. Just a wee smack, nothing a little ice cream and a Scooby-Doo band-aid couldn't fix.

The brave knights in blue, aka members of the let's-record-your-pain-and-give-you-mind-numbing-paperwork squad, arrived in all their glory. A photograph was clicked; probably not going to make it to the cover of Time Magazine, but hey, a swollen cheek can sometimes scream greater truths about humanity than a thousand words, or something like that.

And the icing on this multi-layered cake of disaster? The officers gave our poor landlord a crash course in eviction etiquette and landlord-tenant procedures, essentially handing him a beginner’s guide to being a landlord. Quite the afternoon for Sir Landlord Extraordinaire, huh?